


Answer and Question

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [17]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Consent Issues, Dark, Dialogue-Only, Dispatching souls to hell since..., Mental Health Issues, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>But this time she must be Anne - Anne pure and gentle as a white doe, eyes full of the hope of the world...</em>
</p><p>  <em>She did not like being Anne.<br/></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Answer and Question

**Author's Note:**

> While the consent issues don't go further than show canon, it's still content designed to disturb: detailed content notes below. 
> 
> There's a bit of a bonus if you're familiar with the book.

Normally for a job of this type she would make herself into Clarick, a leopard come flaming out of hell, promising sin and delights on the point of a knife. Or she would be Charlotte the pragmatic, clear-eyed adventuress, always up for a halfway honest deal. But this time the mark fancied himself a debaucher of innocence and so she must be Anne - Anne pure and gentle as a white doe, eyes full of the hope of the world, Anne who knew every smirching fingerprint on her tender skin and felt every bruise.

She did not like being Anne.

She took herself to her borrowed boudoir after supper and sat before the vanity, contemplating her reflection. A door opened. Steps. A click beside her and she turned in a rustle of silk shawls - Aramis had set down a plate of grapes on the side table. He reached around her for a gilt-backed brush and gathered up the dark shawl of her hair, working at it more gently than Kitty would. She realised that she'd been worrying at the ivory-pale fringe of her shawl - a ridiculous habit - and instead took a dark red grape to roll on her tongue and taste the tartness and the sweetness.

"Going in through the roof is still a viable option."

She curled her lip in a flash of Clarick's fire. "Give up a sure thing in favour of faffing around in the rain? Don't be squeamish."

He drew the brush again through her hair, soothing as currying a horse.

She turned and ticked her thumbnail against the narrow dent of a scar on his forehead. "Ten years younger and it would have been _you_ dressed up as lamb hunting an invitation."

"As you say, Madame."

Her fingers drifted down to the corner of his eye. "No dew here now."

His cheeks creased in a smile, though there was no mirth in it; he set down the brush and took her hand away, rubbing the fingers lightly with the pad of his thumb.

“Who would you like me to wear for the coachman?” he asked. It was a concession, for he disliked using names - afraid of getting lost in them, she suspected. He would learn. 

“Grimaud?” he continued. “His air of fallen refinement will suit your narrative nicely."

 _"No!"_ she riposted. "Not Grimaud."

“Mousqeton is too street, and too canny, I think,” he said. “Not for the house we’re trying to gain entrance to. Perhaps Planchet? I can bring out the idiot vigour - no-one will take him - me seriously. The Cook will pinch my cheeks and dream of her lost youth."

She rolled her eyes. “If you must.” Sometimes she thought he played Planchet’s dashing about just to irritate her. 

He nodded, his shoulders already falling into the loose-limbed gangle of the character. "I'll be up from the Servant's Hall to the private chambers as soon as their eyes are off me. You won't have to hold for long."

"The study first, that's where the papers will be."

"God _damn_ it!" 

She slapped him. 

"You underestimate my resources," she said, turning again to the mirror. She lounged back in her chair and let her eyelids droop. "Do it again and I might well slit your throat to save myself the trouble of a partner I can't trust to trust me."

His chin came up and his hands worked in frustration. "As you say, Madame," he hissed over his shoulder as he turned on his heel, but paused in the doorway, one hand coming up to rest in the frame.

“Monsieur le Bishop…?”

“His hide is sacrosanct, until the job is done,” she said brusquely. 

“And after that?”

She shrugged, reaching for powder. It was best to keep one's options open.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: They're talking about Milady using her body as bait on a job, and the prospect has her rattled, though she doesn't want to admit it. Aramis tries to dissuade her. Murder is contemplated. Milady's method of getting into character is a bit method, more than is good for her. 
> 
> Oh, and Aramis gets slapped - do we need to warn for Aramis getting slapped?
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> She prefers being a villain to being a victim, I suspect. Anybody notice that every time I write something from Milady’s perspective, I only use pronouns, not names?
> 
> I hesitated a long time before posting this, but then, dubious consent stories are already in show canon. ‘I need my executioner to LIKE me or I will die in the morning’; ‘If I don't make the Spanish Ambassador flip then my usefulness to my patron, and thus his protection, will disappear’; or even, ‘I am desperately worried for my child and the person in charge of him keeps making eyes at me’. Deadly for the seduced parties, undeniably soul-crushing for two of them. I still want to wrap the vile seducers in blankets, give them hot tea, and make the bad things go away. 
> 
> Oddly enough, this started with the question, 'What if Aramis were subconsciously mimicking his friends when he needed to play a role?' Things evolved. 
> 
> Finally, as God of this story, I say Aramis found what they needed quickly, Milady didn’t have to hold for long, and any people that belonged in hell, went.


End file.
